


follow the fault lines of your heart

by paddyfields (lucitae)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Pacific Rim AU, highly experimental writing, lapslock, pov switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26593828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucitae/pseuds/paddyfields
Summary: The world ends, as they know it, in 2013 when a portal opens at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.This is how they reunite a few years later — not on a court nor in a stadium, but rather — among monsters and man made machines.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Shirabu Kenjirou/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	follow the fault lines of your heart

**Author's Note:**

> please read the tags very very very very carefully. i'm pretty sure this fic makes no sense to anyone except to my own brain orz.
> 
> all my pacific rim aus are inspired heavily by bazooka's [pacific georim](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4649793/chapters/10606344).
> 
> a very self indulgent, personal take on drifting.
> 
> if the implied sexual content is too explicit do dm me.

_I NITIATING NEURAL BRIDGE..._

your heart blossoms in your chest, much like the tea leaves that unfurl in the glass teapot. the aroma of green tea is calming, much like the hand that turns yours over. 

( these are not your memories, but it feels as if they were. )

dusty blonde hair falls into your field of vision. he still sports the same cut as he did in high school. the familiar angle of his bangs asks you to brush it out of the way. you only hold still because he would scowl or look at you in shock — in a way that demands you never do it again. you don’t know which one is worse so you keep your hands to yourself. well, still. in his.

he’s testing the range of motion of your left arm. you want to tell him that it’s physically fine. it’s just unable to sync up with the neural bridge and to be used to control a jaegar ever again.

you know he knows.

seen him pour over textbooks on neurology, engineering, and sports medicine. watched him throw himself back into the analyst role ( the one you took from him when your neural surge kicked everyone out until he stepped in ) after the incident. caught a glimpse of him consulting experts in his field about the possibility of recovery. it’s futile. you want him to stop. but the moment he lifts his head the words slip from you.

you once asked him, early on, after a successful neural handshake: _do you have it in you to use me, no matter the situation or how merciless it may seem?_

the answer hasn’t changed.

he still brims with hope. it’s in the way his thumb sweeps along the edge of your radius like a caress. it’s in that unwavering gaze of his, stubborn to a fault. it’s in his voice as he says your name.

and maybe you want to share the same faith. so look your former co-pilot in the eye as your lips curl into a smile.

Sakusa Kiyoomi appraises Shirabu Kenjirou.

He hasn’t changed much. Grown a bit taller since high school days where their schools faced off against each other before the world as they know it came to a screeching halt. Or with the roar of a kaiju emerging from the Pacific Ocean like one of those old films as his cousin likes to put it.

But this Shirabu before him has all the uncertainties of a boy and the burdens of a man. Even as he bends at the waist in a ninety degree bow and says “please.”

Kiyoomi recalls the clips of Shirabu suited up next to Wakatoshi-kun as part of the newsreels meant to instill hope and boost morale. The papers and whispers of horror when Japan’s ace fell. The articles that interviewed the cadets and new recruits who had the honor of training under **_THE_** Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Kiyoomi can’t help but wonder why Shirabu has come all the way to a different shatterdome when there must be hundreds of other bright-eyed individuals clamoring to be the one who brings Wakatoshi-kun out of retirement. He also can’t deny the curl of satisfaction at seeing Wakatoshi-kun’s former co-pilot asking him to fill that role.

Instead Kiyoomi asks: “does Wakatoshi-kun know you’re here? Doing this on his behalf?”

The eyes that do not raise from where they are fixated on the floor answers Kiyoomi’s questions.

“Does he even want to return?” Kiyoomi poises this one, spine still giving its weight to the wall as his arms unfold.

Only then does Shirabu meet his eyes. Unwavering. Stubborn. A challenge to Kiyoomi to ask better questions.

Kiyoomi holds the gaze, hoping the mask obscuring half his face disguises it as disinterest.

“You know what it’s like to ghost drift.”

Kiyoomi does. The echoes of Komori Motoya’s mind is within reach. But still Kiyoomi wouldn’t claim to know his cousin better than his cousin knew himself.

“Why me?” Kiyoomi asks in lieu of _why not drift with him once more?_

The clenched fists do not unfurl from Shirabu’s side. Kiyoomi wonders if it is in anger, frustration, or the need to hide the emotions that surface with the slight tremble of his hands.

“I want him to be supported,” Shirabu says. “It can’t be someone who sees him as a mentor or as a hero.”

( not just a friend. someone who meets him half way.

you see yourself through his eyes. the neon colors of itachiyama’s volleyball club uniform next to the proud purple of shiratorizawa’s. ushijima-san observes the game at play, your younger self stares at him openly.

jealousy twists in you. you know it is not yours. he’s too far away to listen to the conversation you held with him.

you give it to shirabu:

_wakatoshi-kun, how did you get so good?_

_by practicing a lot._

_besides that._

_because i got lucky._

there’s an emotion that flows into you, not a faded echo of one like the jealousy you experienced.

it’s warm. like a hot pack wedged into your hands when someone notices the tips of your nose and fingers are red from the biting wind.

to you, it’s tantamount to trust. )

“I know I’m not enough.” It comes out as a confession, much quieter than the sentences before.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know Shirabu well enough to affirm or refute the claim. So he doesn’t say anything at all.

“What next?” Kiyoomi asks, thinking about how he’ll break the news to Motoya. But he can already envision that light laugh and the clasp to his back. The _good for you_ followed by teases to bury his own emotions.

But that will come later.

For now:

“We drift,” Shirabu answers.

the screech of the monster rings in your ears. the rig lurches under you. metal creaks as the weight of the jaegar crashes down on one knee. you stagger, barely hold yourself upright. eyes widening as you glance at your co-pilot. fear rising in your chest until it grabs your throat.

( “ _He’s following the rabbit!_ ”

you know that voice. it sounds like your co-pilot’s. but how can it be when he’s right here beside you? )

through the windows of jaegar you see the kaiju that has brought you down. mouth unhinging in another roar, spit splattering and you know the next strike is coming. your eyes flit between the kaiju coiling onto its hind legs and your partner who has yet to get back on his feet.

( “ _Plasma cannon loading. Forty percent._ ”

the vague awareness that there is an _outside_ of the drift. a hazy sheen of pulsating blue light that warns you. )

you know all too well what would happen next if you don’t take action. wished your friends luck before they were dropped, only to never see them return. seen rangers broken over the death of their co-pilot as if they experienced their own with a layered weight of guilt.

you can’t allow shirabu to end here.

you thrust out your left hand when the monster charges.

shirabu screams your name.

you can still see your left arm but it feels as if someone was ripping the limb off. skin tearing, muscles shearing, tendons snapping, bone avulsing from it’s socket. and finally the sear of nerves stretched until it severs.

( “ _Plasma cannon loading. Sixty percent._ ”

you turn your head to see wakatoshi-kun strapped in. eyes distant. )

these memories are not yours. yet they feel both foreign and familiar all the same.

“they aren’t real!” you hear yourself yell above the warning. it sounds garbled as if you were underwater. “these are just your memories!”

as if that makes it any less painful.

in the memory, wakatoshi falls to his knees while clutching his left shoulder. a guttural scream falls from shirabu’s lips as he stands. weapon snapping back into shape when he does as he tries to avenge his partner.

you point beyond the drift, past the glare of the glow of the cannon, into the glass where the real shirabu kenjirou stands with his hands around the kill switch.

“shirabu is out there! he’s safe! you saved him! this is just a memory!”

( “ _Plasma cannon loading. Eighty percent._ ” )

but he isn’t listening anymore.

so you pull a memory that he had shown you moments before his mind decided to fixate on this one.

shirabu kenjirou naps at his desk, head pillowed by his arms and textbooks. your fingers run through his hair, surprised at how soft the strands are, scared to wake him. a smile forms on your lips.

you feed it back to wakatoshi-kun, the way tea spreads its warmth in cupped hands.

( “ _Plasma cannon loading. Ninety-five percent. Preparing payload._ ” )

it capsizes the way a small boat ill prepared for the tall waves of a raging storm does.

the kaiju still feels too close.

desperate, “kenjirou is safe! look!” rips from your throat.

he lifts his head, follows your finger, and the world cuts into black.

* * *

“You should have cut the neural link,” Kiyoomi says after the medical team assessed Wakatoshi-kun. He somehow managed to kill the imminent firing of the plasma cannon through sheer will. “Why didn’t you?”

Kiyoomi’s fist trembles. Partly in rage. Partly because the memory courses through his veins and pulsates behind his lids with every beat of his heart. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands and has half the mind to introduce them to Shirabu.

“I knew you could lead him out.”

Kiyoomi can hear how Shirabu’s voice cracks beneath a thin veneer of grit.

A laugh forces itself out of Kiyoomi’s chest. “You had faith in me?” He knows he is glaring at Shirabu and has no intention of correcting it. “We barely know each other.”

The facade falls away. More vulnerability surfacing than when he had come knocking on Kiyoomi’s door in a plea of partnership for Wakatoshi-kun.

“I had faith in the feelings you hold for Ushijima-san because they are like mine.” Kiyoomi wonders how much has Shirabu pulled out of their drift together. The trial in Shirabu’s prototype before the papers were processed for Sakusa Kiyoomi’s transfer to the shatterdome in Nagasaki. “And Ushijima-san, towards you he—”

“Stop selling yourself short:” Kiyoomi snaps, cutting Shirabu off. “The only reason we got out of it safely was because of you.”

Shirabu’s face falls before the rest of him does. Kiyoomi takes a step forward as the weight collapses against his chest and arms.

Kiyoomi holds himself still until Shirabu is steady enough to pull himself away. Apologies aren’t exchanged. There’s nothing to apologize for.

The process of healing is a difficult one.

Shirabu doesn’t remove his hand from where it grips Kiyoomi’s arm. He lifts his head. The rim of his eyes red as he says: “let’s go see Ushijima-san together.”

* * *

the weirdest thing about drifting isn’t seeing yourself through another’s lenses. rather it is the acute awareness of how malleable memories can be. this saturation, this lighting, shouldn’t be possible and yet the mind is a powerful editor.

yellow and green hues flow into your system, coloring the scene from last night.

your memories are clouded by the dimness of the room. wakatoshi-kun kisses your shoulder, you arch back against him in a moan, fisting his hair in a plea.

his are bright. the flush on your cheeks matches the buds he rolls between his fingers ; matches the color of your shaft kenjirou’s tongue licks a stripe up against until he collects your precum in his mouth. through wakatoshi’s eyes you see the sharpness of kenjirou’s eyes as they work in tandem to take you apart.

you take a deep breath in. then out.

the bridge holds. as it has every time since the very first.

the kaiju’s flesh steams before your eyes. your left hand stings from where you disembowelled it with a sword. your lips curl as you turn your head to face wakatoshi.

there’s amusement in his. the push of memory a reward — a byproduct of the adrenaline of victory. a promise.

( Sakusa Kiyoomi grins. )

**Author's Note:**

> thank you claire for furthering my brainrot ❤
> 
> a very brief blurb on [psych analysts](https://pacificrim.fandom.com/wiki/Psych_Analyst) in pacific rim lore.
> 
> and yes technically this is sakusa pov but because of the drift the memories blur.


End file.
